


like a siren in the night

by Ladymercury_10



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence and Canon-Typical Murder, Gotham City Sirens, life of crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3336281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladymercury_10/pseuds/Ladymercury_10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's because you don't know how to hunt. Not like she does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a siren in the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atriflewicked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atriflewicked/gifts).



> Written for the [fem!february](http://fluffyfrolicker.livejournal.com/58449.html) ficathon. Title from Lana Del Rey.

Have you ever known a cat that would leave gifts on its owner's doorstep? Stupid question, everybody has. The cat you're thinking of, maybe it brought dead frogs, left them right there on the front porch, stained the welcome mat bloody. Maybe it brought punctured mice, maybe songbirds with the heads bitten clean off. So while you were cleaning the mess away, dustpan and rubber gloves, you had two thoughts running through your head. Thought one: oh god, don't throw up. Thought two: Mittens really loves me.

Let me stop you right there. Cats don't give out presents. They don't pay tribute, they don't ask for protection, and they certainly don't give out tokens of their admiration. What your cat is doing is trying to feed you. Teach you a lesson. She thinks you're a useless fucking kitten who never learned to hunt, and she's trying to keep you alive. Get your bloodlust up.

Why am I telling you all this? Good question. It's just that I don't want you to draw the wrong conclusions. In a minute you're going to hear a whip crack outside your office window. Don't bother looking, she'll be gone before you even leave your desk. Instead, go all the way down to the first floor, and look outside the precinct doors. That body? Headless, garrote bruises crisscrossing the throat, blood all down that Armani silk shirt, that's your man. Obviously you won't be able to recognize him, but I think we both know what you'll see when you run the prints. The Falcone cousin who beat four working girls to death, you GCPD flunkies have been looking for this bastard for weeks. Weeks! Weeks to close a case that she finished in one night. It took her ten hours to do what you couldn't, ten hours from the Wanted poster she traced with one long fingernail to the bloody corpse on your front steps. It's because you don't know how to hunt. Not like she does. Not like a cat. 

Just remember, it's not a gift. It's a lesson.

*

Who would send you yellow roses at work? Not your wife—she's the one who gets sent the roses in this relationship, and anyhow, yellow's not for lovers. You don't know much about flowers, but you know this much: red is for love, yellow is for friendship. Now who would send a guy yellow flowers, at his job, for friendship? You set the bouquet down on the long glass conference table and think about it. Not your mistress. Not your girlfriend. Not your favorite call girl with the short, short skirts and legs up to here. The delivery girl who brought the flowers, she had nice legs. She was wearing brown coveralls, but you could tell. You can always tell. Plus, she was a redhead, so even if her legs aren't so great she's still at least an 8/10.

This is where you start to get distracted. What are all those flowers about anyway? And, hey, is there something dusted on the petals? This is an important observation, but unfortunately we are running out of time and cannot examine them more closely. Did you know that the biggest flower shop in town got robbed last night? Thousands of dollars worth of flowers, and every single one disappeared between sundown and sunrise. After it was emptied, the store was burned to the ground. It's the strangest thing. Now you're wondering why I'm telling you this. It's an interesting story, but other than the flower thing it's really not related to the situation at hand. Right? 

You should also know that last week, your company authorized the purchase of several thousand acres of virgin rainforest. You should know this because you, Mr. CEO, personally signed the contract. Think of the millions you'll make off the timber alone. Think of the territory once it's cleared, the farms you could plow, the factories you could build.

Think of the willful destruction of our planet's ecosystem.

Are you starting to see where this is going? Probably not. You're probably starting to feel your heart race and your throat close up, your lungs aching with the futile attempt to breathe. This is what it feels like to be poisoned. A proprietary toxin, developed by a skilled biochemist and unidentifiable to all but the most expert toxicologists. There are maybe three people in the world who could tell you what killed you. Because, yes, Mr. CEO, you are going to die. And all because of those flowers. You never did figure out where they came from, or why, or what was the point of those fucking roses. As it happens, the enclosed card lays it all out, but you, I think you're finding it awfully hard to see, let alone read, am I correct?

You can die knowing you were right: yellow roses are not for lovers. But they are extremely popular, appropriate for a variety of situations, and most importantly, an excellent carrier for your new favorite biotoxin. Congratulations, Mr. CEO. 

*

You're dreaming. About a woman, am I right? There's always a woman, except maybe if you're gay but that's not really relevant to the situation at hand. Unless—is there something you'd like to share? It's A-Okay if you are and I'm sure she would like to hear about it. The woman. That you're dreaming about. She loves hearing other people's stories—she used to be a psychiatrist, you know. She had long blonde hair and little round glasses that are probably hip now in an ironic way, but at the time everyone thought they were mousy. Mousy! Like being smart isn't hot. She had that whole sexy librarian thing going, except she wasn't a librarian, she was a psychiatrist. As I said. But anyway, if you're not into that, it's cool. Being a doctor isn't her only shtick.

No, the woman of your dreams—or at least, this dream—loves to dress up. Do you like spandex? She was into that for a while, skintight jumpsuits and painting her face. Experimentation is part of healthy growth—no, really, you wouldn't believe how many of her textbooks in grad school said so. Which is why, if lab coats and jumpsuits don't do it for you, she also wants you to know that she's willing to change. Hair dye? Corsets? Altering her skin pigmentation? She's up for all of it! She'll even make out with her best friend if you want to watch. It's not like they haven't done it before.

Of course, all of this is purely academic, since she's here to kill you. This isn't actually a dream, it just seems that way because of the special medicine she cooked up just for you! (She used to be a—no wait, you know that one already.) Now, blunt head trauma is usually a pretty reliable killer, but this mallet is really heavy and it's possible she'll miss the first time. Or four. But that's okay, as long as you're still alive, Rorschach blots are always fun! 

Come on, now, what do you see in this pool of blood?


End file.
